


Mr. And Mrs. Dursley-Evans’ Very Extraordinary Morning

by JustASimpleHo



Series: The Adventures of Harry Potter-Dursley-Evans [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Good Dudley Dursley, Good Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Good Petunia Dursley, Nice Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Nice Petunia Dursley, Nice Vernon Dursley, Self-Aware Fic, Slightly Self-Aware Fic, self-aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 19:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17607614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustASimpleHo/pseuds/JustASimpleHo
Summary: Why were the Dursleys so mean?Harry’s personality, his actions, his choices, even those in the later books, are all influenced by his upbringing at the Dursley’s horrid household. Had he been raised differently, would he have made the same decisions? Would he still have been on the side of the Light? Would the story of Harry Potter still fundamentally be the same as we know it today?What if the Dursleys were good? And not only good, but kind? And raised him right, in a loving household, as he deserved?A prologue to a longer work yet to be published, but a work that can be read alone as a short story. Follows the same flow and structure of the first chapter of the first book.





	1. Foreword

            I was first inspired to re-enter the Harry Potter fandom when my family vacationed in Osaka –the exact moment was when we went to Universal Studios and entered the Wizarding World of Harry Potter; I instantly fell in love with the franchise and the story and Hogsmeade and Hogwarts all over again. Thus, began my rabid consumption of fanfiction, a thorough scouring of the wiki and Pottermore (of which finally helped me discover my House – Hufflepuff – ) and, when I returned home, a re-reading of the first book of the series.

            I knew what I was getting into when I re-read: yes, Ms. Joanne’s world-building was astounding and simply Apparated one to the Wizarding World, but her fond use of adjectives and adverbs made for a childish voice and style that neither suited the theme (death, loss, and war, as it would be apparent in later books,) but also the audience (Young Adult – they must be reading a more sophisticated form of literature.)

            But that didn’t stop me from feeling like I was right alongside Harry, Hermione and Ron as they solved the puzzle of the Philosopher’s (or Sorcerer’s, as I was reading the American version) stone, and that didn’t stop me from sympathizing with Harry because of one of the major plot devices of the book:

            Why were the Dursleys so mean?

            Having suffered from a form of trauma myself, I quickly recognized that Harry’s personality, his actions, his choices, even those in the later books, were all influenced by his upbringing at the Dursley’s horrid household. Had he been raised differently, would he have made the same decisions? Would he still have been on the side of the Light? Would the story of Harry Potter still fundamentally be the same as we know it today?

            A spark lit within me that day, and a thirst that, like many of you may recognize, sprung up like a well in a dry desert. I needed to see the alternative.

            But the alternative I was seeking, then, wasn’t if Sirius Black hadn’t been wrongfully imprisoned, or the classic if Neville was the Boy-Who-Lived: instead, I wanted to see an alternative reality where the Dursleys, those achingly, bitchingly, nasty relatives of Harry, were _good._ And not only good but _kind._ And raised him right, in a loving household, as he deserved.

            I returned to AO3, and FF.net, and scoured the pages for a fic of this nature. I searched high and low, used tags, used exclusions, sorted by hits, by recency…

            Nothing.

            Deeply troubled, I could think of only one thing left to do then:

I had to write this reality myself.

 

            And so, it is with great pleasure, my dear reader, that I present to you the prologue of my current passion project: An alternative reality, a retelling of the Harry Potter series where the Dursleys were good.

            Most, if not all, of my writing, follow the flow and structure of the original text – don’t be surprised if you find yourself reading lines, or even paragraphs, directly ripped from the book. It is my intention to _tell the same story_ , but to highlight its differences: Ms. Joanne’s writing, while flawed, is a bestseller, after all.

            _Mr. And Mrs. Dursley-Evans’_ Very _Extraordinary Morning_ follows the events of the original first chapter of the first book – and can be read by itself as a short story, as a prologue to _Harry Potter-Dursley-Evans and that Supremely Surreptitious Stone,_ , (my retelling of the first book, to be published soon,) or as a prequel. The Dursleys in my fic are _very_ OOC, especially Vernon, (he's practically a different character.)

            It’s split into four parts, to allow for easier reading, and is one of the pieces of literature I have spent the most time on in my life – funny, I know, for it to be a fanfiction.

            Now, buckle up the seatbelt on your Ford Anglia, push the necessary buttons to hide from Muggles, and enjoy the ride.


	2. Part One: A Number of Very Extraordinary Events on A Very Extraordinary Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Number of Very Extraordinary Events occur on A Very Extraordinary Morning for Mr. and Mrs. Dursley-Evans.

        Mr. and Mrs. Dursley-Evans, of Number One Aspen Avenue, were proud to say that they could be considered by most of the population to be absolutely insane, thank you very much. They were the first people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange, mysterious, or _strange_ , and the _last_ people you’d expect to be involved in something so simple and nonsensical as doing the _groceries_ or, heaven forbid, _going to the office._ They just _did not hold_ with such _non-_ nonsense.

        Mr. Dursley-Evans was one of the fine directors of London’s esteemed West End, and he was currently working on a relatively new production, _Cats._ He was a man easily mistaken for a lumberjack, with his trim and muscular physique, but he managed to retain a form of elegance evidently seen in the equally eye-catching way his tailored suits and tattered denim jeans flowed around his body, and the way his large handlebar moustache and full beard balanced itself on his face. His skin was radiant with the light of the setting sun, with a Brazilian-esque, perfect tan he somehow managed to have year-round.

 _Mrs._ Dursley-Evans, on the other hand, was like a birch tree in the wind: slender, flexible, and vibrating with a laugh always bubbling from within. She had a waterfall of cascading, wavy blonde locks, which could only be compared to the Huang He River in China, churning its waters every which way. Her teeth, while not perfectly straight, were white enough to be featured in a toothpaste commercial, and her dazzling smile proved to be very useful when she spent her time waving over garden fences, chattering with the neighbours on all topics, from Chemistry to Cricket. The Dursley-Evans had a toddler named Darius, and in their opinion, he was just as wild as his loving parents.

            The Dursley-Evans had _more_ than they could ever want – and being philanthropic, they donated half of their earnings to charity – but they also had a secret. Their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it, or worse, somebody who _knew_ the secret would discover _them_. They didn’t think they- and in fact, a quarter of the population of _Britain itself_ – could bear it if anyone found out _the truth_ about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley-Evans’ sister, and they were each other’s most trusted confidants. As a matter of fact, there were things Mrs. Potter knew that even Mr. Dursley-Evans had _no idea about_. The Potters had a small son, as well, who was only an infant. This gave them a good reason for the Potters to visit often – they wanted Darius to be as close with his cousin as possible.

But.

The Dursley-Evans shuddered to think what the neighbours would say to the public if the secrets of the Potters were to be revealed. Chaos, anarchy, and indecency (and not the good kind!) would surely run rampant in the streets, and it was for this reason the Dursley-Evans were sworn under secrecy by the Potters.

While Mr. and Mrs. Dursley-Evans woke up on the bright, dewy Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the rays of sun shining outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley-Evans hummed the opening from _Cats_ as he dressed in a black leotard, and Mrs. Dursley-Evans was harvesting fresh eggs from their chicken coop while discussing the latest headlines with the neighbours; Darius tottering behind her, checking for any missed eggs.

Mr. Dursley-Evans suddenly dropped the white cast member shirt he was about to put on, at precisely the same exact moment Mrs. Dursley-Evans let go of the egg she had been holding, which then landed on the ground with a _cra-splat!_

“Are you alright?” asked the Dursley-Evans’ neighbour, looking down at the egg’s contents on the ground, the yolk broken.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley-Evans had both noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the second-floor window, which had left as quickly as it appeared. Mr. Dursley-Evans looked down from the very same window at the one his wife looked up to and made eye contact with her. A silent thought passed between the spouses: _Something’s happened to the Potters._

At half-past eight, Mr. Dursley-Evans picked up his leather duffel, kissed Mrs. Dursley-Evans on the cheek, and chased after Darius for a solid five minutes, trying to kiss his son goodbye. He finally “caught up” to the teething tot, and picked him up with his strong, tan arms, growling, “Little Tyke!” lovingly.

Just as he was about to step foot out the door, he pulled Mrs. Dursley-Evans towards him, and whispered, “This has never happened before. James _always_ leaves a note with his owl, and in the first place, his is a snowy _white_ owl.”

“You shan’t worry about it, Vernon. There are _loads_ of _them_ in Britain. Somebody’s owl probably just needed a rest.”

            Mr. Dursley-Evans sighed, put on his motorbike helmet, wrapped a yellow and black scarf around his neck, then started his Harley-Davidson’s engine with a _brrRRR!,_ gently backing out of Number One’s avenue.

            It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the _second_ sign of something peculiar – a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley-Evans didn’t realize what he had seen – so he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Aspen Avenue, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? He had heard James mention _them_ being able to turn themselves into animals, yes. but this couldn’t be one of _them_ , could it? Mr. Dursley-Evans blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back.

“Excuse me?” he asked, in a small, timid voice. The cat screeched at him, almost startling him off his motorbike, then scampered away. Mr. Dursley-Evans shook his head, but as he drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Aspen Avenue – yes, this _must_ be one of _them_! But then again, this could just be a very _very_ strange looking cat! He decided to give himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward London he thought of nothing except for the Cats he would direct, and not _that_ cat. Sooner, however, rather than later, that cat would be the one directing _him._

But on the edge of town, stage blocking was driven out of his mind by something else. As he weaved in and out of the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help but notice that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about.

People in _cloaks_.

Mr. Dursley-Evans _loved_ people who dressed in funny clothes – he himself was envious of the getups one saw on young people! He supposed this was some trendy new fashion, fresh off the runway. He twisted the handlebars of his motorbike to the left, then sharply to the right, but slammed on the brakes as his eyes fell on a huddle of these models – well, they had to be _models_ , nobody else could have _these_ styles so early – standing close by, whispering excitedly together.

Mr. Dursley-Evans was shell-shocked to see that a couple of them weren’t young (or models) at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and was wearing an emerald-green cloak! What style! What substance! He simply _had_ to know which designer was putting out these fresh pieces and choosing such a diverse group to show them off, at that! It struck Mr. Dursley-Evans that this was probably a marketing stunt – yes, rather than buy expensive billboard space, why not have the clothes advertise themselves in the morning rush hour? … yes, genius marketing indeed…

He soon noticed an opening in between some cars, however, and once again weaved in-between the standstill, and, a few minutes later, arrived at the New London Theatre parking lot, the thought of emerald-green cloaks a mere note in the back of his mind.

Mr. Dursley-Evans went straight into the heart of the theatre to begin stretching and vocalizing with the cast as soon as he arrived. If he hadn’t, he might have rushed home immediately to be with his wife. _He_ didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people out in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at night-time.

The rest of Mr. Dursley-Evans’ morning, however, was perfectly normal, if drab. He danced with five different cast members. He made several important phone calls regarding costume repair, then danced a bit more. He was in a very _neutral_ mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d incorporate a bit more cardio and walk across the road to buy the cast some treats from the bakery.

            He’d almost forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them curiously as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him a tiny bit invigorated. This bunch was whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single pamphlet regarding the designer or the clothes.

It was on his way back past them, carrying a large bag of sugar-free, gluten-free, vegan, flourless muffins for the cast, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard –”

            “-yes, their son, Harry-”

            Mr. Dursley-Evans nearly dropped the bag of diet-friendly muffins. He looked back at the whisperers, quickly approaching them-

            “Excuse me! Did you say, Harry Potter? The son of Lily and James?”

            “Yes, yes! Did you know them? They are heroes! They have saved us all! Thank Merlin!”

            All at once the whole group broke out in similar sentiments but began moving _en masse_ away from Mr. Dursley-Evans before he could say anything else, until he was left in the middle of the sidewalk with his jaw hanging open, muffin in hand.

He dashed back across the road, hurried to his office, told one of the cast members kindly not to disturb him, and jammed his finger on the telephone’s buttons. The other end picked up not a second after.                  

            “Petunia? Petunia darling, have you seen-”

            “Vernon is that you I have been waiting by the tele-”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Dursley-Evans had begun speaking at the same time, muttering panickily at each other until they both stopped to catch their breath.

“Listen, Vernon, maybe this is just a special _holiday_ for _them_ , and besides, the fact that you heard that cloaked group talking about _Lily_ and _James_ and _Harry_ might not _mean_ anything, I mean, congratulations to my sister for marrying someone so well-known and well-off, but I do rather think that-”

“But _Petunia_ , they were speaking in the _past tense._ _Past. Tense!_ Whatever could that mean? You don’t think that they-”

“NO! I simply refuse to believe it. Lily and James and baby Harry are all perfectly fine, they _are not_ \- not- not-”

Mrs. Dursley-Evans voice cracked over the telephone as both husband and wife took a moment to _consider_ the possibility that - but it was just so _impossible-_ but maybe-

“At any case, Vernon, it’s better if you just finish your workday. What is it now, 12:30 pm? You end at 2:30, yes? It’s just two hours. We’ll discuss everything when you arrive then.”

“You’re probably right… It would be a waste to come rushing home _now,_ especially if there’s no fuss…”

“Exactly, darling. I’ll see you later.”

And with that, Mrs. Dursley-Evans ended the phone call. She had no idea of what was to come next. No idea of how her life was to change. No idea that, in less 24 hours, her world was going to be turned upside down and her family along with it. But Mrs. Dursley-Evans than, you see, would still have remained unfazed had she known. She stood resolute in her ideals and sure in her decisions. Only time would tell what would happen next to her – and the rest of the Dursley-Evanses, as well.


	3. Interlude: The Cat On The Wall

        Back at Number One Aspen Avenue, Mrs. Dursley-Evans had just hung up the phone when a surge of creative genius overcame her. Not only did she feel the urgent _need_ all of a sudden to _create –_ to paint, specifically – but she knew it would be an effective distraction technique against the worrisome morning and Mr. Dursley-Evans’ distress call. She decided to call it upon herself to channel her energies and emotions into something productive – something artistic. Bringing out a fresh canvas and her trusty set of acrylic paints, she picked up a brush and thought, very quickly, like a vision, _“Family Portrait.”_   She painted at first with wide, broad strokes, the brush saturating the white with pigment. Darius crawled over to her and began painting as well, albeit on the newspapers laid out on the floor and with his fingers.

        All of this was being observed by the tabby cat on the wall of Number One Aspen Avenue.

        It peered at the mother and son duo within Number One, as a sort of spark seemed to come from within Mrs. Dursley-Evans and would light the canvas with her vision. Her son, on the other hand, even if just a child, seemed to have that same spark, his handprints creating different patterns on the newspapered-floor. The cat took a step forward, very silently, as it moved to observe closer. Indeed, that _spark_ was very much alive in both of them – one might even say it was like _magic_.


	4. Part Two: The Rest of The Very Extraordinary Day

Mr. Dursley-Evans found it a lot harder to concentrate on faux felines that afternoon and when he left the building at two-thirty, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, are you alright?” he gasped, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley-Evans realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passer-by stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!”

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger – which was usually the norm, but this stranger was wearing one of those _cloaks_ – and he had been called a _Muggle,_ the very same thing James and Lily called him and Mrs. Dursley-Evans. My, he could remember the first time he heard that word-

 _“James, darling, will you_ please _stop Charming these Muggle objects, poor Petunia will never be able to use them again!”_

_“But why not? It’s terribly fun to have a radio that plays whatever song you say out loud, instead of having to pick a station.”_

_“Lily, I hate to go against you, but I do believe I’m on James’ side here… any song you want… just by saying it out loud! But then again, it would be terribly hard for Petunia and me to have it fixed, should it be broken.”_

_“Oh, you Muggles and lack of_ reparo _, all you have to do is-”_

 _“James, what_ is _a Muggle?”_

_Lily and James looked at Mr. Dursley-Evans face with a mixture of shock and embarrassment._

_“Oh, we didn’t mean to exclude you from the conversation, how terribly rude of me, sorry, yes, a Muggle is a person who-” Lily started, beginning to ramble._

_“-does not have magic,” James finished, stopping Lily from saying anything further._

Mr. Dursley-Evans was, in a word, rattled. He hurried to his motorbike and set off for home, hoping that Mrs. Dursley-Evans was perfectly normal and fine, which he had never hoped before, because he and his wife were as zany as could be.

As he pulled into the driveway of number one, the first thing he saw – which quite astonished him, really, even after the odd events of that day – was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

Refusing to deny the possibility that this _could_ be one of _them_ , he walked up to the cat, unabashed of what he was about to do.

“Well, good Sir or Madam, it looks like you’re not just a regular tabby cat, after all. Looks like you’re going to be here for a while.”

The cat opened its mouth, looking quite shocked. Mr. Dursley-Evans grinned. This was definitely _not_ normal cat behaviour.

“Now, now, no need to be surprised. My wife’s sister is one of yous – and they’ve told us everything about your world!”

The tabby cat looked at him with pure, unbridled amazement, almost shaking its head side to side. After it’s observations from that afternoon – well, there was plenty to say about the Dursley-Evans family, that much was certain.

“Well, I best be heading in now, my wife and son’ll be waiting for me, and before I forget – or before you _make me_ forget, rather – _don’t_ try to Obliviate us, I’ve known for _years and years_ and you would be deleting a large portion of my life – and we can’t have that happen to an innocent man, now, can we?”

            With a masculine charm, Mr. Dursley-Evans pirouetted into his house, determined to discuss the day’s happenings with his wife.

 

            Mrs. Dursley-Evans was nearly done with her painting. Her vision of a _Family Portrait_ had the canvas translate into a casual living room scene with herself, Mr. Dursley-Evans, Darius, and baby Harry seated casually on several comfy-looking couches. She was just about to begin painting James and Lily when Mr. Dursley-Evans arrived home.

“Petunia? Petunia, darling, I’m home!” rang out Mr. Dursley-Evans’ baritone voice through Aspen Avenue. He took off his motorbike helmet and scarf, hanging them in the home’s foyer. “I’ve got a lot to tell you; the owl this morning, I think it might be connected to something larger…”

Mr. Dursley-Evans was stopped speechless as she saw Mrs. Dursley-Evans carrying Darius in her arms. Darius looked like a flag fresh out of a pride parade, and although he knew they had just been painting, he couldn’t help from bursting into laughter. Mrs. Dursley-Evans looked relatively clean, although splatters of paint had yet to dry on the front of her old painter’s smock.

“Listen, Vernon, darling, I’ll just get Darius cleaned up and we’ll discuss everything over dinner. Heavens knows this boy is as wild as we are,” Mrs. Dursley-Evans said with a tight-lipped smile.

After Darius was all cleaned up and Mrs. Dursley-Evans took her pot roast out of the oven, and Mr. Dursley-Evans sat down, arranging and rearranging the cutlery on his table setting out of nervousness, the Dursley-Evans family began to eat. Dinner was a sombre affair.

Although Mrs. Dursley-Evans’s pot roast was delicious, tender, and cooked perfectly, both husband and wife were left with a bitter taste in the back of their mouths. The only person who seemed to be _actually_ enjoying the meal was Darius, blissfully unaware of the tumultuous story unfolding around him.

“The owl this morning – the tabby cat sitting on our garden wall, _reading a map_ – the groups of people in cloaks, huddled together, whispering excitedly – the _tiny man_ I bumped into – it has to be _something_ important… or dangerous.”

Mrs. Dursley-Evans looked at her husband with pursed lips.

“Well, I do suppose you _must_ be right… I mean, the probability of all those things happening _all in one day_ – it’s nigh impossible!”

The Dursley-Evans family silently finished the rest of their meal, cleaned up the dining table and kitchen, did the washing up, and put little Darius to sleep. Mr. Dursley-Evans, wishing to simply forget the events of the day, settled into his favourite chair in the living room, and listened to the mundane happenings of the very normal world around him – he had just enough time to catch the last report on the evening news:

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well Ted,” chuckled the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr. Dursley-Evans sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? Sure, he was shaken by the number of oddities that he had encountered today, but for some of them to make _the news_? It was simply unheard of!

Mrs. Dursley-Evans came into the living room carrying two cups of herbal tea. Things had gone too far. He cleared his throat nervously, and, almost in a whisper, “Petunia, dear… have you tried calling Lily?”

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley-Evans looked shocked and worried. After all, Lily _rarely_ used the phone, preferring to drop messages off by owl or through the chimney.

“Not yet,” she murmured. “Is it really… that bad?”

Mr. Dursley-Evans simply nodded his head slowly, enunciating each word as if they were a lie, “It’s on the news now… the owls… shooting stars… and that’s not including the things _we_ encountered today…”

Mrs. Dursley-Evans sipped her tea slowly, almost as if it contained trace amounts of cyanide. “I can try… Lily herself said that her people are _extremely_ secretive; so, for something like this to happen, on _this_ scale…” she mumbled. “It’s better than doing nothing.”

 

Neither of them said another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley-Evans was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Aspen Avenue, seemingly waiting for something. He tapped the glass, catching its attention, and gave it a melancholic wave.

The Dursley-Evans got into bed. Neither of them could fall asleep, both lying awake, turning it all over in their minds. One of the few comforting thoughts they could think of was that even if the Potters _were_ involved, they were brave, they were courageous, they were daring. They would push through with determination, they would fight the fight and win the war.

How _very_ wrong they were.

 


	5. Part Three: The Boy Who Lived

##    


The Dursley-Evans appeared to have been drifting into an uneasy sleep in their bed, the soft moonlight illuminating their apparently slumbering figures. In fact, it seemed like the whole of Aspen Avenue was sound asleep under the starry night, dark but illuminated by the dozen street lights of the Avenue.

But there was one particular _visitor_ of One Aspen Avenue that was showing _no signs_ of sleepiness _at all_ – and who else would it be, but the cat on the wall?

The cat sitting on the wall outside was as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Aspen Avenue. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all, and, even then, it was just a simple twitch of its tail, and a narrowing of its eyes.

The cat broke its motionlessness because a man appeared at the corner the cat had been watching. He appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The cat’s tail twitched, as it narrowed its eyes, peering at the man.

The man was reminiscent of one of Mr. Dursley-Evans theatre roles, to be frank. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots could be used for inspiration for a new West End production. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. Just like Mr. Dursley-Evans, the sight of the cat amused him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a _pop!_ He clicked it again – _pop! –_ and the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer – _pop!_ s sounding a dozen times – until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance: the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even wide-eyed little Darius, they would barely see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number one, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had around its eyes. She too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked very ruffled.

“I don’t see the similarities between myself and a _cat_ – but apparently, even a _Muggle_ was able to identify me,” she said, slightly glum.

This caused some initial confusion within Dumbledore, but he quickly recomposed himself. “Well, my dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.

“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” remarked Professor McGonagall.

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful but even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news – flocks of owls… shooting stars…”

“You can’t blame them,” Dumbledore gently said. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”

 “I suppose You-Know-Who really _has_ gone, Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall inquired, hopeful.

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful for.”

Professor McGonagall sighed and said, “The owls are nothing next to the _rumours_ that are flying around, though. You know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was anxious to discuss, the reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now.

It was plain that whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was simply staring into the cloudless night sky.

“What they’re _saying_ ,” she pressed on, “is that last night You-Know-Who turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are – are – that they’re – _dead._

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

“Lily and James… I can’t believe it… I didn’t _want_ to believe it… Oh, Albus…”

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know… I know…” he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ son, Harry. But – he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, You-Know-Who’s power somehow broke – and that’s why he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

“It’s – it’s _true_?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done… all the people he’s killed… he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of Merlin did Harry survive?”

“We can only guess,” whispered Dumbledore. “We may never know.”

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me _why_ you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.”

Professor McGonagall gaped at Albus Dumbledore, almost as if she suggested they throw Harry into a cauldron and bring him to a rolling boil. But then, as the mental image of the cauldron transformed into a wooden crib, she closed her mouth and gave a small, warm, smile.

“I see what you’ve done here. I’ve been watching them all day. This family reminds me _so much_ -” and it was here Professor McGonagall had to hold back tears “-of Lily and James. Her sister – Petunia – she’s just like her… smart, sensitive, caring, and sweet. And her husband – Vernon – he apparently knows everything about us, James didn’t hold anything back.”

Both Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall sat in silence for a minute, thinking about the loss of such brilliant members of magical Britain.

“Well, they were practically brothers, and it’s the best place for him.” Dumbledore said, in barely a whisper. “They’ll be able to explain everything to him when he’s older.”

“Yes – yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

“Hagrid’s bringing him.”

“You think it – _wise_ – to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” countered Dumbledore.

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” Professor McGonagall grudgingly said, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to – what was that?”

Professor McGonagall had noticed a slight rustling in the bushes in front of Number One Aspen Avenue, but she quickly noticed a low rumbling sound that broke the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; they didn’t notice the bushes’ movement next to them as the noise swelled to a roar. Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so _wild_ – long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

“Hagrid,” sighed Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. Were there any problems?”

“No sir – house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where -?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever. Well – give him here, Hagrid – we’d better get this over with.”

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursley’s house.

“Could I – could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog. The bushes rustled once more.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief – it was almost like a picnic blanket, really – and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it – Lily an’ James dead – an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles –”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found; besides, it’s not as if _these_ Muggles don’t know anything,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door.

“WE’LL BE TAKING HIM, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!”

A booming baritone voice rang out across all the houses of Aspen Avenue, which caused a ruckus among the trio. Hagrid haphazardly reached into one of the many inner pockets of his coat and retrieved a pink umbrella, Professor McGonagall whipped out a – a stick, and Dumbledore, with a flick of his wrist, ejected a very _old_ looking stick from concealment; he held baby Harry close to his heart, keeping him safe.

They all pivoted to face behind them, where there was sure to be a Death Eater or some other Dark being, come to finish off their Lord’s failed work, but instead, they found a lumberjack with thick, green goggles, dressed in stylish white pyjamas and a blonde woman in a white nightgown who, aside from the hair, and her blue eyes, looked very much like the late Lily Potter. Both of them, it seemed, had twigs and leaves stuck to their otherwise pristine sleepwear, almost as if they had just run through a dense forest.

“I’LL TEAR DOWN TA LOT OF YOU! HOW DARE YA TRESPASS ‘ERE ON THIS PROPERTY, TA THREATEN DA LIFE OF ‘ITTLE ‘ARRY! A’LL SHOW YA!”

Hagrid was about to open his pink umbrella, which was caked with mud, threatening to dirty the clothes of the couple in front of them.

“Hagrid, no!”

Professor McGonagall stepped in front of the soon-to-open pink umbrella, grimacing as its tip stained her emerald cloak.

“This is… Vernon and Petunia. They’re Harry’s family, the only ones he has left.”

Hagrid slowly lowered the pink umbrella and the lumberjack stepped forward, saying, “It’s true. We were hiding in the bushes. We heard everything. _Saw_ everything, too, since James gifted me these goggles Charmed to see in the night,” he spoke, tapping at the goggles on his head.

“We would like to be the ones to receive Harry, thank you very much,” the blonde woman said, stepping forward as well. “What were you thinking, leaving him on the doorstep? _Anyone_ could have taken him!”

Dumbledore opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, and then said, “I do suppose you are right… leaving him on the doorstep might’ve not been the brightest idea…” Dumbledore looked down at his feet, a twinkle in his eyes gone.

“Well?”

It was here all three of _them_ looked up at the couple, the blonde woman with her hands on her hips, tapping her bare feet as if annoyed.

“Well… what?” Professor McGonagall asked, still shocked at how these _Muggles_ managed to hide from her and Albus.

“Is it – is it true? That Lily and James are – _dead?_ ”

Professor McGonagall slowly nodded, hoping the woman wouldn’t shoot the messenger, but was surprised when her brave façade broke down and she collapsed in the arms of the lumberjack, sobbing.

“I didn’t want to believe it – I thought the owl, those people in cloaks you talked about, even the _news_ – I wanted to believe it was all just a _coincidence_.” The blonde woman shook in the arms of the tan man, his moustache and beard rubbing into her hair.

Dumbledore uneasily lowered his wand as well, unsure of whether the woman’s crying was genuine or just a ruse.

“Listen we – we heard everything,” the blonde woman said, wiping away tears. “And we’d very much be honoured to raise Harry. It’s – it’s what Lily and James would want.” She gave a tight-lipped smile, and combed through her hair once with her hand, miraculously bringing it back to its pre-cry splendour.

“And… you’re the tabby cat, I presume?” asked the lumberjack with a grin, extending his hand to Professor McGonagall. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

“The name, my dear sir, is Professor McGonagall. Although, yes, despite James’ stories of you having reached even the portraits at Hogwarts, we _haven’t_ properly met,” Professor McGonagall said, stepping forward and shaking his and the woman’s hand.

“Me name’s Hagrid. Sorry I scared ya lot back there, I dint mean ta. Merlin knows there’s plenty of us who’d love ter take a stab at baby Harry,” Hagrid sheepishly grinned, also shaking the hands of the couple.

“I do hope this is the last time we see each other,” Dumbledore said, bringing out baby Harry from concealment. “If we _must_ ,” he intoned, placing the infant in the blonde’s loving embrace, “that means something has happened.”

The lumberjack looked quizzically at Dumbledore, a mask of disbelief apparent on his face. “And when the time comes for Harry to begin his magical education? We don’t know how to get him a wand, let alone where to exchange our pounds to galleons.”

Dumbledore was, once again, caught off guard. “Not to mention Platform 9¾, Dumbledore,” Professor McGonagall spoke up. “Worst case scenario, the lovely Dursleys and Harry suffer from a concussion from high speed collision at King’s Cross!”

Neither the blonde woman nor the lumberjack had the slightest clue of what Professor McGonagall was talking about, but they nodded their heads, concern radiating from their aura.

“I do suppose… Professor McGonagall will come and show him the ropes, then,” Dumbledore murmured, unsure of how to approach the situation. “Then she can take all of you to Diagon Alley, the two of you and Harry both.”

“That seems about right,” the blonde woman said, smiling at the three. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a new baby to take care of.” Petunia Dursley looked down at the bundle in her arms, where baby Harry was still fast asleep.

“See you in a decade, then!” Vernon roared, clapping Hagrid and Dumbledore on the back. “And you, fine madam, I expect to spend time with,” he said, kissing her on the hand. Professor McGonagall blushed profusely then pulled back her hand as Vernon walked to his wife, who laughed at his “knightly” behaviour. The two of them disappeared into the house, locking the door behind them.

For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the closed door of One Aspen Avenue, the sounds of a mother tending to her babe muffled through its thin walls. Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, (blush still on her cheeks, however) and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes had been fully extinguished.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away. G’night Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a _brrRRR!_ it rose into the air and off into the night.

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. She blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps in a _whoosh_ so that Aspen Avenue glowed with the warmth of a crackling fire and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the outline of Petunia and Vernon in the window of Number One.

“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the rose bushes of Aspen Avenue, which lay humming and asleep under the starry sky, the very first place you would expect astonishing things to happen, but the very last place you’d expect a miracle. Harry Potter was changed into a onesie and placed in a crib, all without him waking up. One small hand closed on the delicate, birch-like finger outstretched to him, and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s gentle rocking as she prepared his milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few months being taken on walks in the park with his cousin Darius… He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter – the boy who lived!”

 

 


End file.
